


Escalation

by mardia



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Crossdressing Kink, Dirty Dancing, F/M, Kink Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 16:27:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10925622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: Tom abruptly feels himself crashing back into his body, as the realization hits that he is on his hands and knees in a hotel room, literally crawling on the floor towards a beautiful girl who is staring right at him, and Jesus Christ, what the hell is he doing, and why does he want tokeep going?





	Escalation

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [those](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pY4LgKXrw5E&t=317s) [performances](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQoAOooeCnA) on Lip Sync Battle, and encouraged by WAY too many people who are living in the same dumpster I've taken up residence in. Special thanks to angelsaves and bessyboo for doing lightning-fast betas of this fic.

It’s not as if Tom has never been on a press tour before. It’s not like he hasn’t heard the wild and wacky stories of what can happen on press tours, when people are in a constant state of jetlag, thousands of miles away from home, being whisked from press junket to premiere to television studio to hotel room after hotel room—it’s no wonder people get stir-crazy, really. Tom’s heard the stories. 

He just never thought that when it came time for him to start making some of his own stories, it’d involve him giving a costar bloody _stripteases_ , for God’s sake.

Although if he’s going to be technical about it, he’s not giving striptreases, exactly. It’s not like he’s taking off his clothes—much. Mostly it’s just dancing. 

Sexily. For Zendaya. He doesn’t even have the excuse of being on a lip-syncing show to drum up interest for the movie, or something they’re doing for their Instagram or Snapchat followers to spark a viral moment—it’s just something they do in private, in Zendaya’s hotel room, because—

Because he wants to. And because, for reasons Tom still doesn’t fully understand yet, she wants to watch him do it. She wants to watch him dance for her. 

So yeah. Things have maybe escalated on this press tour a little bit.

*

The incredible thing is that it really does start out as a joke, just the two of them goofing off after hours, when they’ve spent the entire day answering the same ten questions in front of dozens of journalists, the same five charming anecdotes on rotation—

It’s the furthest thing from a hardship, and Tom knows just how lucky he is, but sometimes the days just drag. So after hours he usually finds himself in Zendaya’s room, where they’ll watch episodes of Brooklyn Nine-Nine and Grey’s Anatomy to wind down, teasing each other over small, ridiculous things that Tom can’t even remember the next day, but what he does remember is the way Zendaya’s nose wrinkles when she laughs, her bare arm brushing against his as she sprawls out on the bed, not caring at all about his personal space.

And then, one night in their hotel room in London, everything just goes haywire. 

They’re both sprawled out on Zendaya’s bed watching Magic Mike 2, with Channing Tatum dancing to Pony on the screen, and Zendaya lets out a little sigh of contentment. “Look at that. That is _art_ ,” she says. “You know, I spent ages recreating this entire routine once?”

Tom lifts his head at this, intrigued. “Really?” At Zendaya’s casual nod, Tom says with a nudge of his elbow, “Well, go on and show me, then. You can’t just drop something like that and not show the goods.”

Zendaya lifts both her eyebrows. “The goods?” she repeats, and Tom blushes. “Hey, man, if you want to have a dance-off, I am down.”

“Oh, I am in,” Tom declares, because he may be several things, but one thing he isn’t is the kind of guy who will turn down a dance-off challenge. With bonus lip-syncing, even.

They spend a good fifteen minutes going over the playlist and the rules—Zendaya insists that Tom can’t do any flips, which is so totally unfair that Tom’s left spluttering, but she wins the argument when she points out that the last thing they need is for the neighboring hotel guests to start complaining about suspicious loud noises late at night. “That’s just going to end up on TMZ,” Zendaya says wisely, and Tom can’t argue.

Zendaya goes first, dragging a chair from the desk to the middle of the room and using it as a prop while the lyrics to Pony blast off Tom’s iPhone, hooked up to the Bluetooth speakers. Tom sits on the edge of the bed and watches, and even if this is a competition, even if he’s supposed to be doing his best to win, it’s amazing to watch Zendaya dance, the way she carries herself, how she takes on the swagger and physicality to remind you of Tatum and the movie while still doing her own thing, full of that endless confidence and control.

Plus, Tom really does have to admit that those hip thrusts she’s pulling out are...really something.

He plays it cool once the song comes to a close, Zendaya sprawled out in her final pose, the hem of her tank top riding up on her flat stomach. Despite the way his face is feeling a little too hot, Tom still pulls an ‘eh’ face, and says dismissively, “Yeah, not bad, I suppose.”

Zendaya bursts out laughing, gracefully rising up to her feet in one smooth motion. “Oh, and I suppose you’re gonna go and do better?”

“Yeah,” Tom says, which just makes her laugh again. 

“This, I have to see,” Zendaya says, and instead of getting back on the bed, she goes and settles herself in the chair, arms folded.

“Oh, what, I don’t get to use the chair now?” Tom demands.

“Hell no,” Zendaya says promptly. “Get your own bit, Holland.”

Oh, it’s _definitely_ on. 

Zendaya makes a show of rolling her eyes as the opening beat from Shut Up And Drive starts playing from the speakers, saying with a laugh, “You’re in a rut, man.”

“I can’t help it if I have an appreciation for the classics,” Tom says with an elaborate shrug, and then Rihanna starts singing, and he gets to work.

Until about halfway through the song, everything’s going good. Tom’s feeling it, he’s in a groove, even without his flips he’s still got plenty of tricks to pull out, and Zendaya seems to be enjoying it as well, watching him with a smile on her face, stretching out in her chair, legs spread wide.

Tom’s on his knees, shimmying his shoulders as Rihanna wails, “So start me up and watch me go, go, go—” and the idea just pops into his head and before he can think twice—although why _would_ he, this is just what they do—Tom gets on his hands and knees and starts crawling towards Zendaya’s chair, peering up at her through the lock of hair that’s fallen over his forehead and eyes. 

He’s nearly reached her chair by the time he sees that Zendaya’s expression has frozen on her face, her eyes wide as she stares at him, and Tom abruptly feels himself crashing back into his body, as the realization hits that he is on his hands and knees in a hotel room, literally crawling on the floor towards a beautiful girl who is staring right at him, and Jesus Christ, what the hell is he doing, and why does he want to _keep going?_

From this close, there’s no way that Zendaya can’t see the way he’s blushing bright red, and she must see the deer-in-headlights look on his own face, and the music is still playing and he’s not moving an inch and neither is she, and then—

And then Zendaya’s eyes narrow a little, and she bites at her full lower lip—and Tom is watching her do it, shit shit _shit_ —and she leans back in her chair, hooking her arm around the back of it, and says, “So? You going to keep going or what?”

Tom can feel his mouth dropping open, but Zendaya just lifts an eyebrow, challenging, and fuck, there’s no way he can back down from that, he _can’t—_

So Tom swallows, and closes his eyes, and keeps dancing, all too aware the entire time of how Zendaya’s watching him, not with that easy smile from before, but with a smaller, more amused smirk, her dark eyes glinting, and Tom—he’s in the best shape of his life, there’s no reason for him to be feeling this breathless, no reason at all. 

By the time the song finally crashes to a halt, Tom’s panting for air, he can feel the sweat breaking out along his hairline, and he freezes in his final pose, arm raised to the ceiling, waiting for Zendaya to do...he’s not even sure what, but to do _something_.

But all she’s doing is still watching him, her eyes bright and interested, and then she tilts her head up, and says in a sweet voice, “You know...that really wasn’t bad, Tom.”

For the life of him, Tom cannot think of a single retort to make. “Um, thanks,” he says awkwardly, falling back into a normal stance again. 

God, he wishes these yoga pants came with actual pockets.

Zendaya seems content to let the silence stretch, because she’s still watching him, she’s still sprawled out in that fucking chair and oh God, one of the straps to her tank top is threatening to slip down her shoulder—

“So, um,” Tom says, and he can hear his voice rising up as he speaks, fuck, “I should probably, um. Go to bed and get some rest, it’s...going to be a long day tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Zendaya says, something flickering across her face for a moment—is that disappointment? Does he want it to be disappointment? Christ, what the hell does he want this to be? “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then?”

That strap of her tank top slips a little further down, and Tom swallows. “Yeah,” he agrees, faintly. “Tomorrow morning.”

*

Tom is basically an anxious wreck the next morning. Well, not basically—he _is_ an anxious wreck. 

It’s just that he doesn’t want anything to be ruined because of last night. Just because he’d temporarily gone crazy, and pushed things further than they should have gone—

Except that he’d _liked_ it. For that one second, being down on his knees, crawling towards her—

Tom’s entire face goes hot remembering, and he pushes the memory as far back in his brain as it can possibly go. Whatever happened that night, it’s not happening again.

Unless Zendaya wanted him to...no, no, no. “Stop being such an idiot,” Tom hisses at himself, scrubbing at his hair. 

And then his phone buzzes, and when Tom checks it, it’s Zendaya, sending him a text. 

_You up?_

Tom freezes for a second. _Yes,_ he texts back. 

Zendaya sends him a smiley-faced emoji at that, and Tom exhales. Okay. Maybe this’ll be fine. Maybe—

_You had some good moves last night_.

Or maybe he’s just going to collapse from shock right here, and they’ll all just have to carry on the press tour without him. He sends back a quick, _thanks_ , and somehow manages to stop himself from typing out in a frenzy whether she thought it was weird or too much or—

But all Zendaya sends back is a winking emoji, and then there’s just radio silence, no matter how long Tom stares at his phone. 

So he orders breakfast and starts getting ready for the day, and it’s not until he’s coming downstairs, PA and makeup people in tow, for the press junket today that he sees Zendaya, in a floral print dress with her hair falling in soft waves around her face, looking just—impossibly beautiful.

She catches sight of him and gives him a big smile, and Tom gives her a dorky wave back, trying really hard not to think about what the hotel carpet felt like under his hands, or the way her voice sounded as she asked if he was going to keep going—

"Hey," Zendaya says as he approaches her, sounding bright and cheerful and not at all like—like anything is out of the ordinary. "You ready for today?"

Tom bounces on his heels a little, and puts cheer into his voice as he replies, "Aren't I always ready?"

Zendaya grins, and leans in a little closer. In a softer voice, she says in his ear, "So about last night—" As Tom stares at her, wide-eyed, Zendaya looks out at where the chairs are being set up, the lighting and microphones, and says, in that same soft, light tone, "I was thinking...maybe you could show me some more of your moves?"

Tom goes absolutely still, frozen to the floor as Zendaya continues, still not looking at him, "I mean. If you've got them."

Somehow, somehow Tom manages to speak, past his suddenly dry throat. "Yeah. I think I've got a few."

“Good,” Zendaya says, cheerfully, as though they’re just talking about whether Tom’s free for another binge session of Grey’s Anatomy. “You ready to get started?”

God, he hopes so.

*

So that's how it starts. First as simple fun, then as a dare, and now as...well, Tom isn't sure what exactly. Only that it keeps going, and he doesn't want it to stop. 

Sometimes it’s light-hearted, with Tom picking out a song like Usher’s Yeah, or Uptown Funk, just so Zendaya can fold her arms at the beginning and say, “Okay, but I did Bruno Mars better.”

That’s easy, hiding everything behind a joke and a cheeky grin, but it never lasts long. It never lasts because there’s always a moment in the middle of the song where Tom catches her eye and it becomes—

It becomes a different kind of performance entirely. One where Tom’s heart’s pounding and his skin is buzzing, one where he doesn’t stop himself from licking at his dry lips and watching Zendaya’s face as he does it. A performance where Tom is aching, knowing the entire time what he looks like, how his thin t-shirt stretches around his arm and chest, how his face is flushed, how there’s a sheen of sweat along his bare skin. 

He knows, because he sees the way Zendaya watches him, sprawled out in her chair in her tank tops and sweatpants, watching him with her elbows braced on her knees, all confidence and attention—all that attention that’s focused on him only, and Tom loves every single second of it. 

And yeah, Tom gets on his knees again, but he doesn’t—he doesn’t crawl again. That’s just a little too much. 

Not that it matters, because each night it always ends the same way—with Tom breathless, panting for air, whether he’s on his feet or on his knees, and every time Zendaya leans in, her lips parted, and Tom is frozen still, just waiting for—

And then Zendaya says, softly, “Nice job, Tom.” And that’s all, and Tom always winds up leaving the room soon after, wound up and unsatisfied and wanting...just _wanting_.

He admits to pushing it a little, as time goes on. Wearing t-shirts that get thinner, clingier, picking out yoga pants that stretch across his arse. The night he shows up at Zendaya’s hotel room wearing nothing but a tank top and gym shorts, Zendaya just stares at him for what feels like an eternity before letting him in—but the night ends the same way, with Zendaya thanking him for the dance, and Tom leaving her hotel room, alone.

Tom has no idea how to change it, and then, right before they’re set to leave Shanghai for Tokyo, he gets an idea. An absolutely insane idea. 

*

Gillian, the PA that the studio assigned to Tom for the length of the press tour, always seems deeply unimpressed, no matter what Tom says or does. On one hand, it’s a little lowering, but on the other hand, it’s actually reassuring—no matter what Tom might say or do, Gillian’s always seen it before, and she won’t be fazed no matter what Tom does.

Tom is really testing that theory right now. 

Gillian stands there, stone-faced, while Tom fumbles through his vague explanation of wanting to order “something” through the Internet, but wanting to make sure this unspecified thing can’t be traced back to him. Oh, and he needs to get it by the time they get to Tokyo.

“Is it drugs?” Gillian asks, still with that poker face. “Or is it a sex thing?”

Tom just stares at her mutely, feeling a wave of heat coming to his face—God, he must be just glowing red right now. 

“So not drugs,” Gillian confirms. “Okay. You’re going to order it with a credit card that I’m going to give you, under the name I’m going to give you, and we’ll send it to the hotel in Tokyo. Once it arrives, I will be the one picking it up from the hotel staff. I will not open the package. I will not see what’s inside. Got it?”

“Got it,” Tom says, in a deeply relieved voice. 

He’s blushing just as hard when he orders the—the outfit—even though he’s alone in his hotel room and there’s no one here to see him do it. But even so, Tom keeps picturing Zendaya’s reaction, what color she would want for the corset, if she’d tell him to go for the fishnet tights again, if she’d think the garter belt was too much or just right. 

He ends up buying all of it, so he hopes she’ll like it. He hopes that when she sees him in it, she goes hot all over, just the way that Tom does when he thinks of putting it all on, of stepping into Zendaya’s room and letting her see him like that. Not as a joke or a gimmick or even for publicity—but because he wants to. Because he thinks she’ll like seeing him like that.

*

Tom spends most of the flight out to Tokyo with his Bluetooth headphones on, listening through various playlists to get an idea for what song to use next for his next...appointment with Zendaya. God, that makes him sound like a hooker. Or like he’s going in to see a dentist. 

He’s halfway through Good for You by the time Zendaya sits down next to him—she’d been over chatting with Marisa earlier. “What are you doing?”

Tom bites at his lip, but admits, “I’m, um, picking out a song for tonight.”

Zendaya breaks out into a smile at this. “Yeah?” At Tom’s nod, she only grins wider and asks, “Can I see what you have in mind?” Tom fumbles at first, but gives his phone over to Zendaya, who just hums in approval as she scrolls through the makeshift playlist, and then she smiles, and hits play. 

As Beyonce’s Partition starts to play in Tom’s headphones, Zendaya grins and leans in, close enough to Tom’s ear that he can hear her speak even over the music. “I like this song.”

Tom swallows, and plucks the earbuds from his ears. From this close, he can smell Zendaya’s perfume, something warm and floral that suits her. “Then that’s the one I’ll pick,” he promises, his own voice a low whisper. 

Zendaya lights up at that, giving him a sweet, delighted smile that takes up half of her face, and Tom knows it technically isn’t true, but it really does feel like for one second, he’s completely lost his breath.

Quickly looking away, Tom taps his fingernails on the armrest before admitting, staring down at his hand all the while, “I might, um—I might have a specific outfit in mind for me to wear. That cool?”

Zendaya’s eyebrows momentarily tick upwards, but then she’s smiling mischievously as she says, her voice deliberately pitched low, “That’s fine. Just so long as I get to wear one too.”

Tom can’t even speak at this point, he nods mutely, and Zendaya just grins and winks at him—winks!—before whisking herself off to talk to someone else, leaving Tom a befuddled wreck, but that’s becoming familiar by now.

*

After the round of interviews and public appearances are done for the day, after they’re back from the big group dinner with the rest of the cast, after he’s said goodnight to everyone—and flushed at the knowing smile Zendaya flashed him as he left—Tom spends quite a while getting ready in his own hotel room. 

He’d already shaved his legs that morning, so getting into the fishnets is fairly easy. The “lace panties” are really more like a Speedo in terms of support, but they’re black, and have a lace pattern on the front, so that works. The corset really isn’t a proper corset at all--Tom had given in to practicality and chosen something he can move in that _looks_ like a corset—but it’s a deep red and has laces in the back, and once Tom’s got it finally on and settled the way he likes, he stares at his wide-eyed reflection in the mirror and says, slowly, “Oh...oh, boy.”

He likes this. Way more than he should. But then, Tom could say that about everything that’s happened, right from the first time he started dancing for her. 

“All right then,” Tom mutters to himself. “Showtime.”

*

Because Tom is not a lunatic, he does not go wandering around the hotel in fishnets and a corset; instead he puts on the camouflage of an oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants, even going so far as to keep the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low over his forehead. 

Once he’s at Zendaya’s room, he quickly raps on the door, and when she answers his knock and opens the door, Tom nearly swallows his tongue at the sight of her. 

She’s wearing a razor-sharp tailored black suit with pinstripes, her hair pulled away from her face in a messy ponytail, and she looks so put-together and beautiful and the thought of dancing for her while she’s wearing that and he’s wearing this is just—it’s too much. Fuck. 

Zendaya gives him a sharp little grin, clearly amused at the gobsmacked expression on his face. “You like it?”

Tom mutely nods. “I, um,” he stutters, gesturing at his unimpressive attire. “I need to change.”

Zendaya just smiles. “Bathroom’s that way,” she tells him, pointing, and Tom just bobs his head and rushes off.

“You can do this, you can do this,” he chants to himself as he drags his sweatshirt over his head, and then sits on the edge of the tub, gingerly trying to wriggle out of the sweatpants and get them over the combat boots he’d elected to wear. (For one insane second during the ordering process, Tom had genuinely considered wearing heels, but had given it up because he was afraid of stumbling on the hotel room’s plush carpet.)

Once he’s ready, Tom nervously pushes his hair off his forehead, squares his shoulders, and murmurs one last time to his reflection, “Okay. You’ve got this.” And he does, he’s got to—and it’s Zendaya, whatever else is going on, even if—even if this doesn’t work, even if she doesn’t like it, there’s no way she’ll be cruel about it. It’ll be fine.

On that less than inspiring note, Tom slowly comes out of the restroom and into the main space, and Zendaya looks up from where she’s sitting in her usual chair—and the moment when she sees him, when her jaw actually drops is—well, it’s a great feeling. Fantastic, even.

As the butterflies in his stomach are finally settling down, Tom finds the confidence to grin back at her, and cocks his hip as he asks, “Like what you see?”

“Obviously,” Zendaya says, her gaze trailing up and down Tom’s body like she doesn’t know where to stare first. “Is that a real garter belt?”

“Yeah,” Tom confirms, plucking at one of the straps holding up his fishnets. When he looks back up, he sees Zendaya staring at where his hand is still resting on his thigh, and Tom flushes, but he’s grinning too. 

“Should I get started?” he asks, and Zendaya blinks, seemingly coming back to herself. 

“Yeah,” she says, clearing her throat. “Yeah, the speakers are on the desk.”

It takes Tom less than a second to get the music ready—technically it’s the video playing, not the full-length song, which gives Tom only a few moments to get ready, sitting back on his heels on the carpet, staring up at Zendaya across the room—and then the beat kicks in, and Tom closes his eyes and gets to work. 

Pushing back his nerves, Tom looks Zendaya directly in the face, and as Beyonce starts to sing, Tom puts one hand down in the soft carpet, and deliberately starts to crawl towards Zendaya on his hands and knees. 

He’s hardly breathing the entire time, and Zendaya just keeps staring at him as he approaches, eyes huge in her face, and once he’s right in front of her, Tom drags in a deep breath and goes for fucking broke. He lets his hands loosely circle her delicate ankles, and then he just keeps going, sliding his hands up her legs, fingers gliding over the smooth, shiny fabric of her trousers, feeling the wiry strength of her legs beneath them, the way they’re nearly rigid with tension. 

Tom’s staring up at her the entire time. _Tell me what you want_ , he thinks, over and over again in the safety of his own head. _Just tell me what you want—_

But all she does is just stare at him mutely, her soft lips parted as she breathes shallowly, and then Tom’s hands are resting on her thighs as he leans into her space, and it’s harder to tell who’s shaking more, him or her.

He hasn’t actually done much dancing tonight.

But it’s not really about the dancing anymore. If it ever was to start with.

And now she’s leaning in, and he’s rising up, and finally, finally Zendaya’s touching him, her cool fingers trailing along the neckline of his corset, just barely touching his flushed skin, and Tom shudders and finally breaks for good, whispering before he can stop himself, “Oh God, please—”

That’s the magic word, that’s what finally gets Zendaya to surge forward, clasping his face in her hands as she kisses him, her mouth soft and tasting of lip gloss, kissing him feverishly, and Tom groans into her mouth, his body going hot everywhere as he kisses her back, his head tilting back as he gives himself up to the feel of her mouth on his, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him still, keeping him exactly where he wants to be. 

*

It’s a good thing he didn’t wear heels, Tom thinks dazedly as he and Zendaya stumble over to the bed, tangled up in each other’s arms, still eagerly kissing. He’d have definitely fallen over his own feet by now if he had. 

And then the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed, and he feels the pressure of Zendaya pushing him, and before Tom quite realizes what’s happening, he’s falling backwards and landing on the mattress with a dull thump. 

He blinks up at Zendaya, who says breathlessly, “Not that you don’t look great in those panties, Tom—” and Tom can feel himself blushing all the way down his chest as she says this, “but I’m gonna need you to get them off now, okay?”

Tom stares up at her for one frozen second, and then scrambles to do as she says, fingers fumbling with the garter belt, dazedly looking up to where Zendaya is wriggling out of her trousers, kicking off her heels and then, oh God, dragging her underwear down her smooth brown legs before kicking them to one side and clambering back onto the bed.

Her fingers tangle with Tom’s as he’s still working at the snaps on the garter belt, and God, the feel of her fingers on his bare thighs is just—

“Holy shit,” Zendaya murmurs, staring down at him. “Did you shave your legs?”

“Yeah,” Tom says, blinking up at her. 

“Fuck,” Zendaya says with total sincerity, and crawls on top of him to kiss him deeply, sucking on his tongue until he’s groaning and clutching at her desperately, rocking against her smooth thigh, and God, every inch of his body is buzzing with electricity, he can hear his heart beating—

But then Zendaya’s sitting up, helping him drag the panties just far down enough to free his cock, and then she’s stroking him, thumb rubbing at the head, and Tom swears loudly, biting at his knuckle to get control of himself. “Fuck, I can’t—”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” Zendaya promises, pulling a condom out of the pocket of her suit jacket—Jesus, she still has her jacket on, how is this so fucking hot—and tearing the wrapper open. 

Tom holds himself very still as she rolls the condom onto his cock, and then she’s straddling his lap and slowly, slowly sinking down on top of him, hot and tight and wet and fuck fuck fuck, this is so good, how is this so unbelievably good?

Zendaya looks nearly as overwhelmed as Tom feels, eyes squeezed shut, panting softly as she adjusts, asking softly, “Don’t move yet, okay?”

“Whatever you want,” Tom promises, his nails digging into his palms as he squeezes his hand into a fist. 

And then she exhales and opens her eyes, and her hand dips forward between her legs, and the shirt tails are covering it up but Tom can see flashes of where she’s teasing herself, rubbing at her clit, he can feel her fingers just brushing against his cock, and Tom just barely bites back a strangled noise. 

“Let me,” he says, his hands skating up her thighs, but even though Zendaya’s grinning down at him, she shakes her head. 

“No,” she says breathlessly, pulling one of his hands away and pinning it down by his head. “No, I want you to stay like this, just like this, okay?”

Anything she wants is just fine with Tom at this point, and he opens his mouth to say so, except that’s the moment that Zendaya chooses to finally start moving, slowly rocking herself back and forth on Tom’s cock, and whatever he was about to say is swallowed up by his low groan, as he helplessly holds onto her hip with his free hand, held down as he just lets her, lets her _ride_ him—

“Oh God,” he groans as she starts to pick up the pace, grinding down on him with slow circles of her hips that seem designed to drive him insane, her grip on his wrist like iron as she leans in over him, eyelashes dipping down over her dark eyes, and Tom lurches up and kisses her, pleading, and Zendaya’s teeth are sharp on his lip as she kisses him back. 

“Please,” Tom hears himself say as she pulls back, shuddering. “Please, just—”

Zendaya’s grin at this is sharp and crooked, as she says, “Say that again.”

Oh God. Tom didn’t think it was possible, but he’s burning up even harder, his free hand sliding underneath her shirt as he says, begs out loud, “Zendaya, please, God, _please_ —”

And she listens, she does, finally picking up the pace, her jaw set as she braces her arms on either side of him, and starts to move faster, leaning down and resting her forehead against his as she does as he begged her to do, and fucks him through the mattress. 

*

“I’m not going to lie,” Tom mumbles much later that night, from where his face is tucked into the nape of Zendaya’s neck, “I still can’t believe this happened.”

He can hear the smile in Zendaya’s face as she says, stroking his hair as she talks, “Really? Because from the second you walked in wearing that outfit, I _knew_ this was going to happen tonight.”

Tom can’t help the grin that comes to his face at hearing that. “Yeah?”

“Duh,” Zendaya says, as if it’s obvious. “I’ve been waiting for you to make a move for ages now.”

“Wait,” Tom says, a little surprised, “you wanted me to make the first move? But you never—”

Zendaya pulls back a little to sit up in bed, staring down at Tom as though he’s lost his mind. “Tom,” she says slowly, “I’ve been into all this since we did the Lip Sync Battle.”

Tom stares back at her. “No, you haven’t,” he says, blankly. 

“Of course I have!” Zendaya insists, flinging one hand out for emphasis as she talks. “Did you miss the part where you went out on a stage in fishnets and lipstick and danced in the rain, all on TV, and I was practically stuttering because I was so into it?”

“But you!” Tom is just about stuttering _now,_ he’s so stunned. “You were acting so casual about all of it! You kept letting me _leave_ —”

“You never told me that you wanted to stay!” Zendaya protests. 

“Oh my God,” Tom groans, flopping back against the pillow. “We’re both idiots.”

Zendaya’s quiet for a second, then she points out, curling in closer to him, “Yeah, but we’re idiots who just had a really good time.” 

“Good point there,” Tom admits, smiling as Zendaya leans in for a soft kiss. When she pulls back, it’s only far enough that she can rub a thumb along Tom’s lower lip, looking at him for a moment before asking, curiously, “Have you ever thought about wearing lipstick again?”

Tom feels a faint shiver run along his spine, and his breath comes a little quicker as he admits, voice low, “I’d wear it if you asked me to.”

Zendaya gives him a huge smile for that. “Yeah,” she agrees, “you would, wouldn’t you?” 

And when she moves to kiss him again, Tom is already tilting his head up in anticipation.


End file.
